Small Things
by RJVause
Summary: Vauseman one shot - little bit angsty - somewhere after a break up.


Seventeen days, eight hours and nine minutes… That's how long it has been – but it's not like I am counting – right? Not like I take notice of stuff like that.

You always told me that I never focused on the small things.

Maybe I didn't – not consciously at least, certainly not so you would know I cared – but _fuck_ Pipes, I care _so_ much; this time away from you – is killing me.

I close my eyes and all I can see is you – everything about you just fills my mind, you've become a part of me but it's taken this to realise how much of me you actually came to occupy. Sneaking in so I didn't notice, taking residence in my very being.

Now you're gone and I'm no longer whole.

It's as if you are still here with me in our apartment; if I held out my hand now, I swear I would be able to touch you, mere inches away from me, limbs lazily draped over me as we watch movies. If I were to walk into the bedroom, you'd be wrapped up in the covers, the perfect image of innocence and beauty, which can disappear in a second, replaced with your insatiable desire I'd do anything and everything in my power to quench.

Seventeen days, eight hours and eleven minutes …

I suppose this apartment is just mine now.

I don't even need to have my eyes closed – every detail about you is etched into my memory, skating across my vision, filling each glance with traces of you.

Everywhere I look – you are there. I close my eyes and I see you.

There's no way to escape. Even after everything – I am not sure I would want to any way.

I blink and I see the way your cobalt eyes, that normally sparkled so brightly, burned as they searched my own that night. I was so used to looking in them, seeing love and affection reflecting back at me, but all I could see was rage and hate, despising myself for what I saw as I'm the only one to blame.

Or the way your touch, usually so delicate and gentle bit into my skin following those words I so wish I had never uttered. Red welts rising on my cheek instantly – the bruising staying for days. You struck out with such force I was hoping that it meant there was still some feeling left for me, tucked somewhere behind the anger and the hate.

But you turned away, and I knew. That cut deeper than the mark left on my face ever could.

I watched the bruising develop and fade – staring at the shifting patterns in the mirror for so long I lost track of the hours passing; wincing as I traced its outline, wanting to touch is as it was something to remind me of you. The only visible mark of you and me.

The pain helped, made me realise what a fool I had been. It kept the hope alive that you might come back. Even though I knew deep down it was a long shot; after all I put you through? How you had put up with my absences, my attitude of late – if I was honest with myself, I was surprised you had stuck with me for so long.

All this, it was never about you. The job, the work. I thought I needed that to keep you happy.

Seventeen days, eight hours and twenty minutes …

Turns out you just needed _me_.

Even when the door opened, left unlocked for days in case you'd thrown your key in a rage; pushed so carefully to prevent that creaking hinge from announcing your presence; I didn't need to hear it.

I could sense you were there; it couldn't have been anyone else.

I drank you up as you walked towards me – stunned by how much I missed you in just those few days apart, taking in all and everything about you in that moment.

The way your hair cascaded over your shoulders, a golden waterfall of soft waves.

The way your nose twitched ever so slightly when you wanted to say something you didn't like.

The wringing of your hands, as you danced internally with your thoughts, carefully measuring out the words you had to say, keeping hold of the ones you wanted or longed to release.

The slight pause in your movement as you stepped towards me, holding yourself back, refraining from just sweeping everything under the rug.

You could never play poker with me.

I know all your tells.

This would never end well.

You took almost everything that night, only leaving that one photograph – the one you couldn't understand why I loved it so much.

I suppose it's hard to take something back after its been hurled across a room, leaving an indent in the wall with its force, shards of glass falling to the floor, the perfect representation of us now.

You stopped in the doorway as I called your name, my own falling from your lips, pleading me to let you go. Could it have been a plea to rescue you instead? Sweep you up in my arms; promise you it would all be ok. That it wouldn't happen again.

My heart shattered as you closed the door behind you, screaming as I dropped to my knees as the realisation sank in.

It was dark when I had enough strength to pick myself up off the floor, nearly stabbing my bare feet on the smashed slithers of our past, my eyes falling to the discard photo.

Smoothing the creased edges and dusting off the broken glass, I still smile at that image, even now.

I have it ingrained in my memory, that day, that moment. I don't need to look the photograph to remember, but I do. Eyes hungrily searching every millimetre of the paper in my hands, absorbing your face one last time.

I can't bear to have that last look on your face as you walked away, to be the last one I have of you.

But that photograph. Neither of us are looking into the camera, it's not posed, just a moment in time caught with an absent minded click of a button.

You look so carefree, bright blue eyes half shielded as you nestled your head into the crook of my neck. I can still recall the scent of coconut and vanilla, reminding me of holidays, sunshine and sand as your hair tickled my nose, a smell that was solely you and no one else.

The photo is blurry – taken as we tried to contain the laughter, shoulders shaking at some stupid joke I'd made, both of us finding it hard to breathe at the time, but I can hardly find it funny now.

My dark hair and pale skin contrasting to the warmth of your own, as my arm snakes around your waist, pulling you towards me, needing the closeness, wanting to make you feel secure.

My fingertips trace over the memory and its weird, because in that moment I could see everything about you and see now how I took it for granted.

You said I forgot to notice, didn't care about the small things.

No. I noticed.

 _Fuck_ , Pipes I cared.

I just didn't know what to do with it all.

Now I'll never know.

I'm still sat on the floor as the moonlight illuminates the broken mess around me, flooded with thoughts and memories of you storming away; drowning as I realised I should have tried harder.

Regretting that I didn't.

Eighteen days, three hours and thirty-three minutes …

That's how long it has been – but it's not like I am counting – right?

You always told me that I never focused on the small things.

But it's all I have left.

* * *

 **A/N:** Good evening lovely people!

So yeah….what can I say other than I am still here. Call off the search party – I've been here all along. Sorry about that.

Work has been a little more than shit these past few months, resulting in my head not being in such a great place – which, try as I might, means I've struggling with the next part of Something Good.

But please, for those who follow it, who have sent me messages asking for an update – it will get one. I'm not giving up on it – just – it will take a little time.

So for now - this is my attempt to try and get back into the swing of things, I never meant for it to be this angsty – but I had the idea, ran with it and I suppose it's a start. If there is anyone still out there following me – let me know what you think…


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